Chipped blue paint greets my fist during my rooftop meeting with the devil. "No, not blue. Turqoise," he said with poise, his hand on my shoulder his arm on my back.
"You and I, we stand alone on the precipice of greatness," he whispered. "On the verge of removing choice from the equation." His hand on my shoulder, his arm on my back.
"All it takes is a little push." His hand on my shoulder, his arm on my back
And I fly.